People do that sometimes:
They yellow. They crack.
Spread out over every subtle color,
stick to your wings.

Imagine time like the man with a cotton swab.
peel fossil resin back, find primary oil.
Underneath the overpaint
shadowed firmament all orange and gold.

Bad cases get a scalpel;
for the worst he uses hands,
rub solvent until even
fingerprints vanish.

There is only the true of you
revealing yourself,
hand raised in praise again;
fire reborn in a dead eye.

Under blacklight there can be no pentimento
only an empty studio, quiet dark
some space to tell
these stories of our scars.